Wolf Parade
by Caseyrocksmore
Summary: Stiles takes Derek in after his fight with Scott, and he has an interesting proposition. Derek/Stiles endgame. AU after 1.08 "Lunatic." A series of short stories cross-posted from LJ.
1. An Animal in Your Care

**Title:** An Animal in Your Care  
><strong>PairingCharacters:** pre-slash, Stiles/Derek  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13  
><strong>Words:<strong> ~3800  
><strong>Summary:<strong> What are you supposed to do when an injured werewolf turns up in your bedroom?  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers:** Takes place directly after 1.08 "Lunatic" and contains obvious spoilers for that and any episode prior. Obviously becomes AU after that point.  
><strong>Notes: <strong>The title is from the song by _Wolf Parade_. Some of the lyrics are quoted at the beginning and the end because they fit with the story. I wrote this directly after watching 1.08 "Lunatic." Any resemblance this story holds to 1.09 "Wolf's Bane" is purely coincidental, as it was written before the episode aired. (But I totally called it, BTW.)

* * *

><p><em>Time after time, you will forgive me<br>like an animal in your care._

Stiles drags himself into the house and flicks on the light. He's _exhausted_, really, physically and emotionally. His heart hasn't stopped racing since the moment he saw that body— that body he thought was his _dad_—

A low noise escapes his throat as he stumbles through the foyer and up the stairs. He'd honestly thought, if for only a fleeting moment, that his best friend had killed his father. It's a wonder he's still standing, really.

The only thing that keeps him from throwing up is the fact that it was his father who'd told him to go home. His father, alive and well, whose pulse Stiles had felt beating sturdily beneath his uniform.

Stiles climbs the stairs unsteadily, keeping a hand on the railing to keep himself upright. He's practically dead to the world as he lurches, eyes half-closed, through his bedroom door. He knocks his shoes off as he crosses the room, pulling his jacket off and tossing it over the back of his desk chair. He fumbles at the buttons on his shirt as he gets to his closet, leaning his forehead against the wall as his fingers work at the daunting task.

He doesn't hear the door to his bedroom shutting quietly.

Shrugging off his shirt, Stiles groans and rolls his shoulders back. He doesn't want to know where Scott is. He doesn't want to acknowledge the fact that he failed in the _simple_ fucking_ task_ of keeping him in his bedroom during the full moon. He doesn't want to know if someone got hurt, if the body he saw was his best friend's doing, if everyone he knows is still breathing.

He doesn't. But he can't stop thinking about it anyway.

Stiles turns and opens his eyes.

A startled yelp escapes his lips before a hand is pressed over his mouth, containing the noise. Breathing heavily, Stiles groans and reaches up to grab Derek's wrist and pull the hand from his mouth.

"Derek?" he says, his surprise covered by his harsh whisper. "What the _hell _are you doing here?" It takes him a second of thought for a relieved laugh to escape him. "God, Derek, we thought you were—"

"Dead?" Derek finishes for him, taking a step backwards. "I know."

"You scared the shit outta me, man," Stiles says, practically panting. He knows, vaguely, that he must have walked right past Derek without even noticing. It's a scary thought.

Derek smirks.

"Metaphorically," Stiles continues, running a hand over his face. "And you didn't answer the question. Why are you here, _in my bedroom_, in the middle of the freaking night?"

"It took me a while to heal," Derek says as though he's ignoring Stiles' question, "I holed up in my car all weekend and slept it off."

"That doesn't answer the—"

"Shut _up_," Derek growls, and Stiles falls silent, watching him. "I can't go back home. There's a hunter waiting on my doorstep. I could smell him from a mile off."

"So you came _here_?" Stiles demands, waving his arms around erratically. "What about Scott's—"

"Scott almost killed two people tonight," Derek says, just as calmly. "He's lucky I was strong enough to fight him off."

"There was a body—"

"The Alpha," Derek automatically corrected, looking annoyed. "Scott didn't do anything but dent the roof of a car. He's at home. I dropped him off there after he shifted back. But his mother is there, and it's not— not a safe place, for me. It smells too much like wolf."

"My dad—"

"Will be out all night trying to figure out what happened to the thugs the Alpha got a hold of. He's never here, anyway. This place smells like you, and you alone. Your mundane human stink will mask my smell for a while." He pauses and then smirks again, baring his teeth. "Besides, I heard it's going around town that I'm a murder. I have to lay low for a while. And where better to hide than the one place no one will look? The Sheriff's house."

Stiles sighs, and then really takes a good look at Derek. He's holding his arm close to his body, and favouring his left side— he's hurt from his fight with Scott. His clothes are a mess of dirt and leaves and dried blood. And he looked almost as tired as Stiles feels.

"Fine," Stiles agrees, crossing the room and opening his bedroom door. "You can stay here." He leaves, and when he returns, he's carrying an extra pillow and blanket from the hall closet. "But you're taking the floor."

Derek takes the bundle of bedding from Stiles, and he looks grateful— as grateful as Derek can look, anyway, as he kicks some of the dirty clothes on the floor away from him and settles down on the now-bare patch of carpet to sleep. Stiles is half expecting him to turn in circles before he lays down to sleep, but he doesn't. He stretches out lazily and pulls Stiles' blanket over himself, and then seems to immediately fall asleep.

Stiles watches him for a moment, a small smile lifting up the corners of his mouth. When he gets into bed and turns off the light, he looks over to the lump of a person sharing his room and feels not scared, like he would imagine, but almost affectionate. As much as Derek has become an annoying fixture in his life since Scott was bitten, he's glad that the werewolf isn't dead.

* * *

><p>Stiles wakes up at an ungodly hour to the sound of Derek whimpering. It takes the drowsy teenager a minute to place the sound and when he does he's surprised, to say the least. Derek, curled in a ball near the closet, is shivering and making little noises in his sleep.<p>

With a sigh, Stiles throws off his bedclothes and pads across the room to kneel beside his unexpected houseguest. He can see the driveway from his bedroom window and it's devoid of the cruiser, so he knows his father isn't home yet, though the sun is rising already.

"Derek?" Stiles asks quietly, trying not to startle him. He doesn't want know what the werewolf would do if he was jolted awake— rip Stiles' throat out, most likely. "Hey, Derek, wake up." He places a hand on his friend's shoulder carefully, only to withdraw it a moment later.

Derek's skin is scalding hot, so much so that the heat has soaked through his two layers of clothing and the blanket Stiles had lent him. After a moment's consideration, Stiles yanks the blanket away from Derek's body. His clothes are drenched in sweat and he smells like wet dog.

"Why is it always _me_?" Stiles asks no one in particular as he gets up and goes to get Derek some water from the bathroom. He almost grabs the bottle of aspirin while he's in there, but figures out very quickly that if Scott couldn't get drunk off half a bottle of Jack that a couple of pills aren't going to help Derek's fever.

When he returns to his bedroom, Derek hasn't moved an inch. Stiles puts down the glass of water to pull the shaking werewolf into a sitting position against the wall, which is easier than he thought it would be. Derek doesn't put up any resistance to Stiles' guiding hands, and even opens his eyes as Stiles leans his sweat-slick head against the blue painted wall.

"Woah, okay," Stiles mumbles as he sees Derek's eyes— bright blue and practically glowing, with the pupils blown wide and the irises ringed in red. His skin is pale, too, and the bags under his eyes have darkened. "Here, drink some water."

Stiles has to hold the glass for Derek to take a few sips of cold water, though it does seem to help. Derek's pulse is racing, and he's still way too hot to the touch when Stiles puts down the glass again, but he's managing to look scary and imposing again, so that's a little more normal.

"Must've ruptured something," he says as nonchalantly as he can muster, letting his electric blue eyes flicker closed as he leans his head back against the wall again with a _thump!_. "When I— fought off Scott—"

"_Ruptured_ something? Like, an _internal organ_?" Stiles squeaks, wide-eyed and apprehensive. He's no doctor, of course, but even with Derek's super werewolf healing powers that doesn't sound good.

"Had a lot of internal bleeding... after the Alpha got me," Derek continues without opening his eyes. He can hear Stiles' heart racing and sighs. "I'll be... fine."

"You don't sound sure about that," Stiles points out, sitting back on his haunches and chewing at his thumb nail. It's a bad nervous habit that got him labelled as a thumb-sucker all through middle school, but he'd mostly curbed it by junior high. It comes back at times like this. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Derek cracks his eyes open and looks at the nervous teenager warily. "Only way to... _help_ is to cool me down. Might take longer to heal, but the process will hurt less."

Stiles nods enthusiastically. "Cool you down, okay. So, like an ice pack, or— oh! A cold shower. That'll work, right?"

Derek makes a low noise of agreement at the back of his throat, and Stiles jumps up and offers him a hand. "May I show you to the bathroom, sir?" he says only a little sarcastically, and is awarded a piercing glare from Derek.

After quite a lot of shuffling around and awkward positioning, Stiles manages to help Derek hobble across the hall to the bathroom. He has one of Derek's arms draped over his shoulder and is supporting most of Derek's weight— which is more than he weighs himself and almost entirely muscle— and the heat radiating off the werewolf's body is nearly unbearable. He gently sets Derek down on the closed toilet seat and then moves to turn on the shower, setting it to the coldest setting and turning to help Derek into the tub.

Derek, who has already discarded his jacket and is struggling to pull his arms out of a sweat-soaked, skin-tight t-shirt. Stiles gulps, flashing back to the last time he saw Derek half-naked. It wasn't exactly a pleasant memory for either of them, considering Stiles was almost made to _cut Derek's arm off_, but the image has given him quite a few unwelcome dreams, to say the least.

"A little help here, pervert?" Derek asks, snapping Stiles from his trance. Stiles' cheeks colour and he looks away, belatedly realising that watching Derek undress isn't the straightest thing he's ever done. He's smirking, though, so Stiles doesn't feel quite as mortified.

"Uh, sure, yeah," Stiles trips over his words— and his feet— as he approaches Derek and then kneels down beside him. He helps the injured man pull his head out of the t-shirt and off the arm he can't seem to lift above his head, and then leans down to undo Derek's shoes. His blush creeps down his neck as he realises how close he is to putting his face in Derek's crotch— _not that he's ever thought about it before!_— and hurries to pull off his shoes and socks. Leaving Derek's jeans on seems to be the unspoken consensus.

Stiles stands and then slips under Derek's arm again, which is hotter and slick without the jacket between them. Stiles has the sudden urge to tilt his face up and kiss Derek's parted lips, but he resists because, _hello! _He doesn't want to get his throat ripped out. Derek's breath his hot and moist against Stiles' cheek as he helps Derek to the bathtub and carefully pulls him under the cold spray.

Stiles' shirt gets pretty much drenched as he manoeuvres Derek to a sitting position in the tub, but it's worth it to hear the pleased sigh that escapes Derek's lips. Stiles steps back and Derek leans forward against his own knees, letting the water run over him.

It's a very aesthetically appealing sight.

"I'm going to get you some dry clothes," Stiles says quickly to excuse himself, because he can feel the rise in his own pulse and _Goddamnit, why must werewolves be able to smell arousal?_ "For when you get out."

Derek might have mumbled something in reply, but Stiles is out the door before he can hear anything of the sort. He riffles through his closet trying to find something suitable before deciding that none of the pants he owns would fit Derek properly; he's too short and stocky. So he settles on a baggy old police t-shirt that used to be his dad's and tries not to think about the fact that it's usually what he wears to bed.

He tiptoes into his father's bedroom, even though he knows that the Sheriff isn't home, and hastily grabs an old pair of track pants that he doesn't wear anymore. It's not like he'll miss them. He hardly ever wears anything but his uniform anymore.

Once his heart rate has slowed down and he feels more in control of his thoughts and feelings, Stiles returns to the bathroom and puts the clothes he brought for Derek onto the bathroom counter. The werewolf is just where Stiles' left him, sitting with his face pressed to his knees under the cold spray. He looks up when Stiles comes in. His eyes have faded back down to their usual hazel, and his skin is nowhere near as pale as before.

"You look better," Stiles comments quietly, bending down to kneel next to the tub. Derek snorts.

"This helps."

"...Can I get you something else? Breakfast?"

Derek almost visibly perks up at the mention of food, looking uncharacteristically interested. "I wouldn't want to impose," he says facetiously, and Stiles laughs gently.

"I can make a _mean_ plate of scrambled eggs. And if dad actually went grocery shopping like I asked, we might even have bacon."

The way Derek's eyes light up is enough of a confirmation for Stiles, so he gets up with a groan as his knees pop and then trots out of the bathroom and down the stairs to make breakfast. It's not even six AM, but he doesn't feel quite as tired anymore.

They _do_ have bacon, and Stiles automatically starts to fry up a panful as he gets out the eggs. He's just transferring the bacon onto a plate when he sees the flash of headlights out the front window— the cruiser.

In a panic, Stiles runs up the stairs and bursts into the bathroom, turning off the water immediately. Derek looks up at him with an unreadable expression, but then he frowns. "Your dad's on the porch," he says, and Stiles nods.

"Yeah, so— be quiet," he instructs, closing the door behind him as he runs back down the stairs and into the kitchen. He tries to act casual as he makes up two plates and deliberately piles more onto the one he plans to bring Derek. Healing internal bleeding probably works up quite the appetite.

"Stiles?"

Stiles turns and grins at his dad, who looks tired as he stands in the doorway. "Good morning, dad."

"'Morning," the Sheriff greets back, looking confused. "What are you doing up so early?"

"...Making you breakfast," Stiles says quickly, setting down his father's plate and pushing it across the counter toward him. "It's a school day, so..."

"You cooked," Sheriff Stilinski deadpans, grabbing his plate and tehn dropping exhaustedly into a chair at the table. "You made bacon and eggs?"

"Yep," Stiles says brightly, opening a drawer to get out cutlery.

"...What did you do wrong?" Stiles' father sighs as he accepts a fork and knife from his son and looks suspiciously at the food in front of him. He narrows his eyes as he gets a better look at Stiles. "And why are you all wet?"

"I didn't do anything wrong!" Stiles protests, and then looks down at his wet shirt. He got drenched helping Derek into the shower. "And I was... hot."

The Sheriff looks at him disbelievingly but digs into his breakfast nonetheless. "...Sure. I probably don't want to know anyway."

Stiles lets go of the breath he'd been holding and relaxes as he turns off the burners, preparing to bring Derek his food.

There's a noise from upstairs and both Stilinskies look up at the ceiling, alarmed for different reasons. Stiles swears under his breath and then bites down on his lower lip, _hard_.

"Uh, I think I'm going to take this... in my room," he says, gesturing to the plate in his hands and turning to go up the stairs.

"Stiles?" his father calls out before he makes it halfway there. Stiles turns and looks at him expectantly, his heart racing wildly.

"Yeah dad?"

The Sheriff looks amused. "No strays, remember?" he says, and Stiles blinks at the unexpected response.

"Uh..."

"Find a home for him, okay? As soon as possible." He chuckles and then rubs at his eyes as Stiles stares at his father, incredulous.

"Um, yes sir?" Stiles mumbles, and then hurries up the stairs and into his bedroom. Derek is sitting on his bed when he comes in, looking a combination of sickly and guilty. It'd be adorable, if it wasn't _Derek_.

"Sorry," the older man whispers. Stiles shakes his head and hands him the plate, looking bemused.

"It's okay," he says honestly, sitting down on his bed next to the werewolf dressed in his clothes and falling backwards onto the mattress. "I think my dad thinks I've taken in a stray dog, though. Just a heads up."

Derek almost chokes on his mouthful of bacon, turning to look at Stiles sharply. "And _why_ would he think that?"

Stiles shrugs. "I've done it before. Apparently I look guilty, and I was exhibiting the same behaviour. He's allergic to basically every kind of fur out there, so he always figures it out when he starts sneezing." He lets out a little laughed as a thought occurs to him. "Don't shift while you're here. He might be allergic to werewolves too."

Derek rolls his eyes and hungrily devours the rest of the food in front of him while Stiles gets up and starts picking up his dirty laundry and tossing it in the direction of the hamper.

"I should call Scott," he muses aloud as he picks out a pair of jeans and a graphic tee to wear to school. He'll take a quick shower and then call him. "As much as I hate him, he needs to know what's going on."

Derek looks up from his empty plate and frowns. "You hate him? I mean, not that I blame you, I'm not fond of him myself, but I thought you two were best friends."

"We were— _are— _best friends," Stiles corrects quickly. "He's just— he did some really dumbass crap yesterday. And I'm— I'm _really _angry with him right now. He betrayed me."

Derek scoffs. "What did he do? Kick over your sand castle?" he snarks, and Stiles stills.

"It doesn't matter what he did, but no, he did not _kick over my sand castle_," Stiles snarls. "He went after the girl he knew I've had a crush on for the past— _forever_— and he kissed her. And then he bragged about it. He made me feel like absolute shit, okay? And I know it was the full moon and his blood lust was at its peak—"

"—but that doesn't excuse his behaviour," Derek finishes for him, watching Stiles carefully. "But you don't _really_ like this girl. Not anymore."

Stiles whirls around to face him, hugging his clothing selections to his chest. "Yes I do!"

"Then why did your heart rate just pick up?" Stiles' mouth falls open, but he doesn't reply. "You're lying. You don't want the redhead anymore. Your preferences have changed in recent weeks to a more... _acquired_ taste."

Stiles' mouth goes dry at the implication, and his heart is hammering against his breastbone so hard it feels like it might burst from his chest. He swallows and hugs his clothes a little tighter to his chest. "No," he lies, and it comes out as a terrified squeak. He meets Derek's eyes and then looks away.

Derek puts his empty plate down on Stiles' bedside table and stands shakily, taking a predatory step in Stiles' direction. "I can smell it, you know. The pheromones are coming off you in waves. And your heart betrays you... like now. It's pounding like a scared—" Derek takes another step forward. "—little—" He steps right up to Stiles and looks him in the eyes, his own flashing blue. "—rabbit's."

Stiles' breath catches in his throat. "Please don't kill me," he whimpers, closing his eyes and turning his head away.

Derek's breathless laugh makes Stiles jump and he opens his eyes cautiously. The werewolf is looking at him like a piece of meat, and it's... vaguely attractive. Or it would be, if it wasn't positively _terrifying_.

"Why would I do that?" Derek whispers, crowding up in Stiles' personal space, "When you_ smell_ so good?"

Stiles' brow furrows and he looks down at his pyjamas. He probably smells like sweat and body odour, and that can't be attractive, especially to someone with superhuman senses. A light bulb goes off in his head and he groans, trying to ignore the swell of disappointment in his chest.

"Moon fever effects you too, huh?" he jokes casually, and Derek sways a little on his feet, unsteady.

"No," he says, but he looks much less predatory and more... wounded animal. "Not anymore."

Stiles rolls his eyes and puts down the clothes he was holding onto his desk, grabbing Derek by the arm and leading him over to his bed. "You still look like crap. Sleep it off, and hopefully tomorrow you'll stop acting like a... lunatic." He snorts at his own joke and earns himself a glare from Derek.

"It's not the moon," Derek protests, but he doesn't have much fight left in him. Mostly, he's just tired— the fatigue comes and goes as his vital organ systems are repaired.

"Sure, like I'm supposed to believe anything you say right now," Stiles scoffs, hating how his heart his hammering as he tucks Derek— who is wearing _his _Beacon Hills Police t-shirt— into his bed. It's not exactly the way he imagined getting Derek into his bed.

Derek doesn't protest, but he gives Stiles a hell of a glare as he grabs his things and leaves the bedroom to take a quick shower before school.

"Yes, you are," he sighs as he settles into Stiles' bed and inhales the scent that he's left behind in it. It doesn't just smell _good_; it smells like a potential mate.

_I fell for you because you're the one that cared._


	2. I'll Believe in Anything

**Title:** I'll Believe in Anything  
><strong>PairingCharacters:** Stiles/Derek, Scott  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13  
><strong>Words:<strong> ~4700  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Stiles doesn't know what he's supposed to believe anymore.  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers:** AU after 1.08 "Lunatic"  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Title is from the _Wolf Parade _song of the same name. Lyrics are quoted at the beginning and end.

For the convenience of my readers on fanfiction dot net who have put this story on alert, I've decided to make these stories each a chapter of one larger story on the site, even though they're really each individual stories. So, in order to facilitate this, the whole story will now by simply called "Wolf Parade," which is the title of the series, and each chapter title will be the title of the individual stories. Capiche?

* * *

><p><em>Give me your eyes,<br>I need sunshine._

_Your blood,  
>your bones,<br>your voice,  
>and your ghost.<em>

Stiles showers more quickly than he can remember ever having done before, barely taking the time to scrub himself decently clean before jumping out again and towelling off. He dresses silently and then wipes a spot on the mirror free of condensation with the palm of his hand. He looks like crap— tired, pale, nervous. He goes about his usual morning routine despite the obvious change; that Derek Hale is currently tucked into his bed twenty feet away.

He really should call Scott, but he doesn't particularly want to. His best friend may still be influenced by the moon, hanging low in the sky even as the sun rises on the other side of the planet. Sometimes he can see the moon in the daytime, and wouldn't it just be his luck that it'll hang around to drive his best friend crazy during the day too?

He's ready for school long before he actually has to leave. He's incredibly ahead of schedule; he hasn't seen much of his father as of late, always waking long after the Sheriff has gone to bed. If he's honest with himself, he knows he misses his dad. He misses family dinner nights, misses his dad's corny jokes and grilling about girls and disapproving tone when Stiles says something stupid.

Sighing, Stiles gathers Derek's clothes— damp and foul smelling, like sweat and wet dog and musky in a gross way— from the floor. He leaves the bathroom and brings them into the laundry room, dropping them unceremoniously into the old machine. He needs to do a load of darks anyway.

When he gets back up to his room, Derek is sleeping soundly. Or at least pretending to be. Stiles moves about his room as quietly as possible, grabbing dirty clothes off his floor and throwing them in a laundry basket tucked under one arm. He adds them to Derek's clothes in the washing machine and turns it on, haphazardly adding the suggested amount of soap and then jumping up to sit on the machine like he used to as a kid. The familiar vibrations and sounds of the junky old machine calm him, slowing the heart that's been racing ever since his dad came home.

He figures it's late enough that he won't feel bad about waking up Scott if he just... goes over there. It's not a conversation they can have over the phone, really, the one they're bound to have. He writes his dad a note explicitly telling him not to go into his bedroom under any circumstances and leaves out the bottle of allergy medication deliberately, placing it on the kitchen counter next to his note.

The stray dog story is a good a lie as any, and it _does_ ensure that the Sheriff won't go snooping through Stiles' room and discover the fugitive he's hiding there. And you never know; the Sheriff's allergies might act up from even just the thought of a dog in the house.

Stiles leaves and drives to Scott's house. He's not nervous so much as angry, the day-old resentment flaring up in his chest as he pulls into the familiar driveway. He lets himself in quietly and ascends the stairs in the dark and heads straight for Scott's room, having been there enough times to know his way around without sight. It would be sad if it wasn't so useful, that he knows the layout of Scott's house better than his own.

"Scott?" he half-whispers, sticking his head into Scott's room and blinking in the dim light from his window. He closes the door behind him and sits down on the edge of Scott's bed when the lump under the comforter groans and moves a little. "Come on, bro, wake up."

"Whattimeisit?" Scott moans into his pillow, drawing up his arms over his head.

"Early," Stiles replies vaguely, poking the werewolf in the shoulder. "Get up."

Scott raises his head and blinks blearily at his best friend, recognition flicking across his features. Guilt manifests itself in his face almost automatically, casting shadows across his face in the faint light. "Stiles—" he starts, but Stiles shakes his head.

"Don't. You owe me more than a half-assed apology right now, okay? You were a jackass yesterday, and you really hurt me, Scott," Stiles cuts him off, fighting the urge to poke Scott in the chest to make his point. "But we have bigger fish to fry right now. Like the furry little problem lying in my bed right now."

Scott blinks at him and sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What? What problem?"

"Derek showed up in my bedroom last night," Stiles states simply, watching with a weird feeling of satisfaction as Scott gapes at the news.

"Are you okay?" he blurts out after the statement registers, practically lunging for Stiles and grabbing him by the arms.

"Hey, woah— what're you _doing?_" Stiles hisses, pushing Scott's hands away from him.

"He didn't hurt you did he?" Scott demands with a rough voice, trying to check his friend over for injury.

"No! No, he didn't hurt me. Why would he hurt me?" Stiles whisper-yells back, pushing Scott away with frustrating.

"The full moon does some pretty shitty stuff to us, in case you hadn't noticed," Scott points out, sitting back on his haunches. "It turned me into a really crappy best friend, but more than that, it made me— it made me want to fuck everything in my general vicinity."

The honest answer shocks a laugh out of Stiles, who shakes his head. "Don't you always?" he jokes, but it falls flat at Scott's expression.

"No." He shakes his head. "No, not usually. Usually it's just Allison. Or just girls in general. Yesterday it was _everyone_. I could smell everyone's pheromones, feel every single heartbeat, hear every quickened breath. I wanted Lydia _so bad_—"

"Scott—" Stiles says warningly, but Scott just prattles on, trying to make his point.

"—but it wasn't _just _her. I wanted... God, Stiles, even _you_ smelled good. So good." Scott is breathing heavily, and his eyes are wide and freaked-out looking. Stiles tries not to be offended by the 'even _you_' comment and the way it was said, like it was some kind blasphemous thing to find Stiles attractive. Scott is just freaking out because the moon put thoughts in his head that shouldn't have been there.

"Is that over now?" Stiles asks, just to make sure.

"Yeah, but last night— you can see why I was worried, right? With Derek, I mean? He could have tried to like... I don't know, _do_ something—"

"Derek Hale did not try to force himself on me," Stiles calmly told his best friend surely. "He may have mentioned how apparently awesome I smell to werewolves, but he didn't actually _do_ anything. And you roughed him up really bad, by the way."

Scott blinks, surprised. "I did?"

"He was still healing from the Alpha... gutting him," Stiles mumbles, almost like he has to defend Derek. Which is ridiculous, because Derek's honour as top dog isn't his responsibility. "You reinjured him. He woke up with this nasty fever and said he had internal bleeding— anyway. He's still sleeping it off at my place. In my bed. Which is kind of the big issue right now."

"Right," Scott agrees, nodding carefully. "So what do we do?"

Stiles flails his arms around for a second. "Why the hell do you think I came here? I'm still pissed at you—" He ignores Scott's mumbled, 'Sorry,' to continue, "—but I need direction right now. _You're_ the werewolf!"

"And I know less about all of this than you do!"

"Well it's your fault I'm hiding Beacon Hills' most wanted in my house! If you hadn't thrown him under the bus, he would be safe to go home. Or to rent a hotel room. Instead he's on the run and has to crash at my _house_, Scott. Where my _dad_ is. The _Sheriff_."

Scott sighs and pulls himself out of bed, looking tired as hell. "I know. Okay? I know how screwed up this is," Scott admits quietly as he heads to his dresser and begins riffling around for a clean shirt. He strips off his old one and Stiles averts his eyes, same as he does in the locker room, to focus on a spot on the wall.

"Well what are we going to _do_ about it?"

"We can't just leave him unoccupied at your house all day," Scott decides, running his hands through his hair to try to straighten it.

"I don't think we really have a choice. We can't let him get caught by the police; we need him, remember?" Stiles points out and Scott groans.

"What if he goes through your stuff?"

Stiles laughs hollowly, shrugging. "The only thing in my bedroom that could be the least bit interesting to him is my research, and even then he knows all that stuff already. Unless he decides to snoop on my computer, which would basically be useless because I cleared my internet history last week and all my porn is labelled as economics homework."

Scott snorts at that, shaking his head. "Doesn't change the fact that he's unsupervised in the Sheriff's house."

"Maybe we should trust him," Stiles mumbles, because he does trust Derek, in a weird way.

"Why? He doesn't trust us."

"He saved your ass yesterday, didn't he?" Stiles is quick to point out, "He stopped you from killing the love of your life in a fit of jealous rage, didn't he? Isn't that reason enough to trust him?" Scott shrugs and Stiles stands up, throwing his hands up in the air exasperatedly. "When has Derek _not _been on our side?"

"You're the one who came here asking for advice!" Scott reminds him loudly, "I don't trust Derek. We should find somewhere else to freaking hide him before he, I don't know, does something—"

"What should we do? I can't just turn him out. It's your fault he's on the run in the first place!"

"I don't know, okay? I don't know!"

Scott's door opens and the quarrelling boys jump in unison, turning to stare at a tired-looking Mrs. McCall. "What the hell are you two fighting about?" she demands, rubbing at one of her eyes with the palm of her hand. Her hair's a mess of black curls and she's holding her housecoat closed at the front; Stiles feels guilty about waking her and apologises quickly.

"Sorry, Mrs. McCall," he hurries to say, "I took in an injured stray dog last night, and I was hoping Scott would know what to do with him." The lie is familiar, close to the truth, and if their parents decide to compare notes they'll have heard the same story.

Scott blinks, not expecting the easy lie from his usually terrible liar of a best friend, but recovers quickly. "Yeah," he agrees, nodding along, "We were just arguing on whether or not Stiles should keep him or put him in one of the kennels at work until we can find him a home."

Mrs. McCall makes a noise at the back of her throat, looking between the two sceptically. "Uh-huh," she says, sounding unconvinced. "Just keep it down, alright? I'm on nights this week."

The boys both mumble apologies and promises to keep the noise level to a minimum, and Mrs. McCall nods once before turning and closing the bedroom door behind her. Scott turns to his best friend with a withering glare.

"A stray dog? Are you _insane_?" Scott hisses as soon as he hears his mother's footsteps heading away from the door.

"It's what my dad thinks anyway!" Stiles quickly defends his lie; it's ingenious as well as completely plausible. "You remember Buddy, right? It's not that much of a stretch that I'd do it again."

Scott rolls his eyes, a fond smile turning up toe corners of his mouth when he thinks about the old hound he and Stiles had taken in for a few weeks during freshman year. They'd managed to keep it a secret until Sheriff Stilinski's allergies had become unbearable, at which point they'd had to find Buddy a new home.

"This is going to blow up in our faces, isn't it?" Scott groans after a moment, remembering how well _The Buddy Incident_ had worked out for them last time.

"Probably," Stiles agrees quietly, flopping back down on his best friend's bed. "Now get your butt ready for school. I need to go in early and talk to Mr. Harris about getting an extension on that Lab Report due tomorrow."

Scott laughs but begins shoving his books into his backpack nonetheless, smirking as he zips it shut and flings it over one shoulder. "Hey Stiles?" he asks, his voice hushed so as not to wake his mother again.

Stiles looks up from where he'd been examining a stain on Scott's floorboards and trying to decide if it's blood or not, frowning. "Hmm?"

"I know you have a fondness for strays, but try not to fall in love with this one, okay?"

A startled laugh is torn from Stiles' throat before he can fully process the statement. "Yeah, no worries about that one, dude," he assures Scott in the same hushed tones. "This one isn't all furry cuddles and sloppy kisses, remember?"

Scott snorts, the image of Derek with floppy ears and puppy-dog eyes flashing across his mind. "Let's hope not, huh?"

Stiles is still laughing when they get into his car several minutes later.

* * *

><p>The school day passes agonisingly slowly for Stiles. He has two pop quizzes he isn't prepared for, and he keeps spacing out, thinking about Derek. He wants to call his house and make sure the werewolf is okay and that he isn't slowly dying or curled up in a ball of feverish pain on his floor because Stiles isn't there to help him into the shower.<p>

Scott keeps glancing at him and barking quietly, which he laughs at, but it's becoming less and less funny each time. The clock ticks impossibly slowly as Stiles stares at it, waiting for the final bell to ring. He has lacrosse practice, but he'll skip it today— he doesn't have the energy or the temper to take another hour of worrying.

After what seems like an eternity, the bell rings and Stiles grabs his bag and heads for the door before anyone else has even left their seats. Scott quickly stuffs his own books into his bag and then races to catch up with his best friend, who has already made it to the end of the hallway.

"Stiles?" Scott says, grabbing Stiles by the shoulder to slow him down. "Where are you going? We have practice!"

"Tell the coach I'm sick, okay? I've got the get home to check on—" A group of giggling freshmen girls passes them and Stiles sighs, rolling his eyes. "—the dog."

"You can't just ditch, Stiles," Scott protests vehemently, though he trots behind Stiles like an obedient dog as they head for the jeep. "You're on first line now, remember? Your first game is tomorrow!"

"Some things are more important than lacrosse, Scott," Stiles reminds him as he digs out his keys and unlocks the jeep's door. Scott simply gapes at him, his jaw hanging open in a way that makes him look like a moron.

"Who the hell are you and what have you done with my best friend?" he deadpans as Stiles climbs into the jeep and pulls the door closed behind him. Stiles rolls his eyes and looks at Scott seriously.

"Do you know how many times I've lied for you?" he asks, and Scott's jaw snaps shut with an audible click. "Exactly. Tell coach I ate the tuna surprise at lunch and can't stop vomiting. He'll think I'm stupid for touching that slop, but salmonella is a pretty good excuse to miss one practice, right?"

Scott throws his hands up in the air. "Fine! It's your funeral dude."

Stiles grins and jams his key into the ignition, spitting out a quick, "Thank you," before pulling out of the crowded parking lot and making the quick drive to his house. The Sheriff isn't home— of course he isn't— and Stiles immediately climbs the stairs and bursts into his bedroom, not quite knowing what to expect.

The last thing he's expecting is for Derek to still be lying in the same position he left him in, tucked into Stiles' bed and appearing to be sleeping quite soundly. He lets out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding since he got out of the car, surprised and relieved at the same time.

Stiles closes his bedroom door quietly behind him, shucking his jacket and draping it over the back of his chair without taking his eyes off Derek's still form. He toes off his shoes beside his desk and then approaches his bed, feeling oddly pleased that Derek had just slept the day away.

Without even thinking about it, Stiles sits down on the side of his bed and places his palm over Derek's forehead to check for fever. The skin is warm and dry, not at all like it had been the night before. Stiles smiles softly, admiring the serene expression on Derek's normally guarded face.

He gently runs his fingers through Derek's hair, a morbid fascination forcing him to do so. It _is_ as soft as it looks, clean and fluffy from his shower that morning. Derek's expression doesn't change, but a hand, fast as lightning, snakes up from under the blankets to grabs Stiles by the wrist and stop the fingers carding through Derek's hair.

Stiles lets out a squeaky noise of surprise as the hand grabs him. Derek's eyes snap open, his serene expression changing to one of mild annoyance.

"Do _not _pet me," Derek says roughly, his voice gravelly from sleep. "Despite what your father thinks, I'm not a dog."

Stiles quickly pulls his hand away from Derek's soft hair, nodding sheepishly. "Right. Sorry," he mumbles apologetically, feeling lucky to still be in possession of all his fingers. He can only imagine Derek going all wolf on him and biting a few of them off. "No petting. Got it."

Derek nods once, jerkily, before pushing himself into a sitting position. He yawns silently, closing his eyes and stretching his arms above his head while Stiles watches, transfixed. The Beacon Hills Police tee Derek borrowed stretches tight across his chest, and Stiles' mouth goes dry at the sight. Derek inhales and then freezes, the solid line of his body tensing as he opens his eyes again to fix on Stiles.

He lowers his arms slowly, never once taking his eyes off of Stiles'. Stiles gulps and scoots backwards on his bed, away from the scary look the werewolf is shooting him. "Whatever I did I'm sorry please don't kill me," he babbles instinctively, wide-eyed and frightened. "I didn't mean to touch your hair oh God I'm going to die I didn't mean to I'm sorry I promise—"

Derek's pupils dilate and a smirk pulls up the corners of his mouth as he watches the teenager in front of him flail and babble spectacularly. "You done?" he asks when Stiles stops to take a breath. Stiles shuts his mouth and nods silently, folding his hands in his lap unconsciously.

"Good," Derek sighs, leaning back against Stiles' headboard and closing his eyes again. "Listening to you talk is exhausting."

He's expecting a laugh and when he doesn't receive one he opens his eyes again and raises an eyebrow at the still terrified-looking teen. "You can stop looking at me like I'm going to eat you, you know. It's not good etiquette for a houseguest to maul his host, no matter how annoying."

Stiles relaxes a fraction and smiles nervously, a twitch of his lips. "So that glare just now was what? A warning?" he asks, sounding fairly brave considering how fast his heart is hammering in his chest. The rabbit analogy flits back into Derek's mind and he snorts, amused.

"No," he says honestly, eying Stiles with mild interest. "But we should probably talk about your crush on me now that I'm fairly lucid."

Stiles' pulse skyrockets so fast that Derek is slightly concerned that the kid might give himself a heart attack. He lets out a squeak so high pitched that it might attract dogs from all over the county, before scooting back so far on his bed that he almost falls off the end of it. Derek easily reaches out and grabs Stiles by the pant leg to stop him from toppling onto the floor, rolling his eyes at the kid's antics.

"Or— uh— maybe we should talk about how awesome I smell and how much you want to do me instead," Stiles counters after he's regained his balance, trying to sound smug and unconcerned, but his pulse betrays him.

"Okay," Derek agrees, smiling wolfishly when Stiles' eyes widen so far they might just fall out of his head. "Let's talk about that." He settles back against the headboard and raises his eyebrows at Stiles, waiting for him to start.

"Wait, so that's an actual _thing?_" Stiles asks, sounding positively perplexed. "Scott wasn't just so moon-loony that he thought—"

"No," Derek cuts him off. "It's an actual thing."

"And you actually think that _I_...?"

"...Smell as good as Allison does for Scott," Derek finishes for him, barely managing to keep a straight face as Stiles jumps up from the bed and begins to wave his arms like a maniac.

"But that's insane!" he protests after he seems to find his voice, and Derek shrugs.

"Nah."

His placid answer seems to drive Stiles even crazier, as he promptly freaks out. "'_Nah?_' That's _all_ you have to say? 'Nah?'"

"Why don't you sit down," Derek suggests, nodding to Stiles' desk chair. Stiles grabs the chair hurriedly and plops himself down into it, fidgeting. He can't seem to stay still anymore, and his heart is hammering a tattoo against his breastbone.

"So, what? What does this _mean?_ None of my research—"

"Shut up," Derek commands, and Stiles' mouth clicks shut obediently. "Of course it's not in your research. Werewolves do have secrets that they've managed to keep out of human hands."

Stiles nods eagerly. "Yeah, of course," he says. Derek raises an eyebrow and Stiles falls silent, twitching in his seat.

"It doesn't have to _mean_ anything," Derek continues, "It's just a fact at this point. A fairly interesting fact, but a fact nonetheless." He pauses, as though daring Stiles to interrupt, but the teen stays silent. "We don't know why— or, at least, _I_ don't know why— but certain humans possess a scent that is extremely desirable to werewolves. They are possible mates. You fall under that category."

"And Allison does too?" Stiles asks, unable to stop himself from interjecting.

Derek's lips set into a hard line, but he nods once. "Yes. But not just you two. It might run in families, I don't know." There's a flash of emotion behind his eyes as he says this, but it's gone so fast Stiles can't tell what it was, or even if he imagined it. "And while I don't know for sure since I haven't been close enough to her, Lydia might possess it as well, considering Scott's actions during the moon."

Stiles relaxes a fraction, looking relieved. "So it wasn't his fault at all, really? If he had no freewill when it came to—"

Derek snorts and Stiles stops talking, his jaw clicking shut again. "He still had freewill," Derek clarifies harshly. "It was still his fault. Don't try to pass on the blame to the moon or pheromones. If we didn't have some ounce of freewill and humanity that remained with us, there would be no way you'd still be a virgin right now."

Stiles turns red at the implication, swallowing hard. "So you..." He pauses, blinking. "...and _me_...?" he whispers, blushing furiously. Derek shrugs.

"Not if you don't want to," Derek says, his face hard and serious. "The mating process must be completely consensual, otherwise it won't work properly." He rubs a hand over his face, looking frustrated. "And both parties must be informed that it's happening. That's why Scott couldn't mate even if he wanted to— because Allison is still clueless. Of course, the fewer people who know, the easier it is for everyone, but mates _have_ to know. That's why most werewolves choose to be with other werewolves, or at least those who already know of their existence."

"Like me," Stiles concludes, feeling an odd twist of... _something_ in the pit of his stomach.

Derek nods once, meeting Stiles' eyes and not looking away. "Exactly."

Stiles swallows and looks away first, focussing on his socked feet as his digs his toes into the carpet. "This is all very... _Twilight_," he says after a moment, looking up to meet Derek's eyes again. They're still hazel, which is calming, and Stiles' heart has mostly stopped its palpitations. "And very sudden."

"I'm not asking you to decide right this minute," Derek snorts, rolling his eyes at the teenager's thought process. "I'm just informing you of the possibility."

"You don't even like me. In fact, you _hate_ me," Stiles points out, and Derek is surprised that there isn't even a tiny blip in his now-steady heartbeat. He doesn't think he's lying. "So why me?"

"I don't hate you," Derek disagrees quietly, pulling Stiles' blankets off his lap and standing up to tower over the only-slightly-terrified teenager. "I wouldn't have said anything if I hated you. You have many desirable qualities of a mate that are not limited to the way you _smell._"

Stiles doesn't seem convinced, but he nods anyway, eyes wide and head bobbing like a dashboard ornament. Derek decides that he's freaked the kid out enough and it's time to make his escape. He's across the room and has one leg out the window before Stiles realises what's going on and jumps out of his chair, bravely grabbing Derek by the arm and holding on.

"Where are you going?" he stutters out, closing his sweaty fingers around Derek's bicep more tightly.

Derek looks amused as he straddles the window sill. He could easily shrug off Stiles' hold, but he doesn't. "I figured I'd outstayed my welcome the moment I showed up unannounced," he says evenly, "And I'm well enough to find another hideout now."

Stiles shakes his head and tugs on Derek's arm. The whole day seems oddly surreal, like a incredibly convincing dream that makes Stiles feel disoriented. "No, no. That's okay," he says, stumbling over his words. "You haven't. I mean, you can still stay here. I don't mind."

Derek allows himself to be tugged back into the room, a tiny smirk turning up the corners of his mouth.

"You're probably hungry. I can make dinner; my dad won't be home until late, so..." Stiles lets go of Derek's arm when he realises that he's still holding on, leaning past the werewolf to pull the window closed. He straightens and looks at Derek squarely again, smiling slightly. "So you can tell me over dinner about all these apparently _desirable_ qualities I have."

Derek can hear the nervous skip of Stiles' heart as he fakes confidence, but he decides not to mention it. "Alright," he concedes, walking carefully back to Stiles' bed and settling himself back into it gracefully.

Stiles stares at him awkwardly for a moment before nodding again, bobbing his head as he walks to the door. "Is, uh... is chicken okay?"

Derek nods and makes a soft sound of agreement, reaching for a book on Stiles' bedside table with mild interest.

"I'm not going to serve it raw," Stiles reminds the werewolf, earning him a huff that's almost a laugh. He counts it as a win as he leaves the room to go downstairs. He figures even if he messes it up, feeding a hungry werewolf can't be that hard. Dogs'll eat anything.

_We both pull the tricks out of our sleeves  
>but I'll believe in anything.<em>


	3. In the Direction of the Moon

**Title:** In the Direction of the Moon  
><strong>PairingCharacters:** Stiles/Derek  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13  
><strong>Words:<strong> ~4400  
><strong>Summary:<strong> In which Stiles cooks and takes his meals with weirdos.  
><strong>WarningsSpoilers:** AU after 1.08 "Lunatic"  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Title is from the _Wolf Parade_ song of the same name. Lyrics are quoted at the beginning and end. I am all caught up with what I've posted at LJ now—which means that updates won't be quite so fast in coming. Sorry! But I hope you enjoy the next part. :)

* * *

><p><em>I take my meals with weirdos,<br>And all the while you are so composed._

False bravado is a good cover for his nerves, Stiles quickly decides. He's good at being the goofy one, the one with all the witty and sarcastic answers. It covers up the fact that his mind is reeling, moving a mile a minute, with all that Derek's told him— and the stutters of excitement that he quickly pushes down.

They're just going to talk about it. Stiles hasn't agreed to anything yet— the little voice in the back of his mind assuring him that he would agree to anything Derek Hale suggested is shoved down just as fast as the aforementioned stutters. His crush on the werewolf isn't so overpowering that he didn't have any _sense_. He needs to know more about this whole "mating" deal before he jumps in with both feet. Just because Derek is, essentially, offering some things Stiles had wanted for his whole life— somewhere to belong, unconditional love— doesn't mean he should take him up on it. Not that he's deluded himself into thinking Derek _loves _him; but wolves mate for life, and he got the vibe that werewolves followed suit. So, yeah. Probably permanent.

Stiles begins pulling out the things he'll need to make dinner, gnawing on his bottom lip in thought. Cooking usually helps to take his mind off things, but it feels almost like he hasn't taken his medication— he can't focus on any one thing for longer than a moment before his thought processes spin off in a different direction.

The hairs on the back of Stiles' neck begin to prickle and stand on end just as he's crouched down to get a pot to boil potatoes. He can sense the werewolf entering the room, can feel the tension in the air despite not hearing his footsteps— but he doesn't react. He has no qualms about having his back turned to Derek, at least not anymore. So he's not even startled when Derek announces himself in his usual cocky way; by patronising him.

"What're you doing down there?"

Stiles grabs the one he wants and then stands back up, brandishing the heavy stainless steel pot at the wolf with a roll of his eyes. "Cooking," he snorts, manoeuvring the pot under the tap and flicking it on. He turns to face Derek at the werewolf continues to stare at him. "What?"

Derek shrugs. "Got bored," he says, his words short and clipped as always. Stiles nods and turns to turn the water off before the pot overflows.

"It'll be a while before I'm done," Stiles reminds his houseguest quietly, not quite comfortable with the werewolf watching him. It's an eerie feeling, having someone watch you as closely as he can feel Derek watching him. "So unless you want to help—"

He lifts the pot again— thrice as heavy now that it's full of water— with a grunt of effort that he's embarrassed to make. The weight is gone from his hands before he can turn to put in on the stove, and he raises an eyebrow at Derek and sets his jaw.

"I _had _it," he protests weakly, but nods towards the stove anyway with a sigh. "Put it on the big burner."

Derek gently sets the pot down on the largest burner, looking at Stiles expectantly. Stiles rolls his eyes again and reaches past him to turn the burner on low, then goes about picking his potatoes. He picks out ten medium-sized ones from the bag he'd already taken out of hiding and drops them on the counter, yanking open a drawer and riffling through it for their peeler.

"If you're just going to stand there," Stiles huffs as he finds the peeler and pulls it out from under the spoons (why on earth would his dad put it there?), "At least _try _to make yourself useful."

He tosses the peeler in Derek's general direction, feeling a little spike in his own heart rate as he tells a werewolf what to do. Derek catches the utensil without any difficulty and Stiles grabs a paring knife for his own use, slamming the drawer shut and hopping up backwards to sit on the counter next to his pile of potatoes.

Stiles is already carefully peeling his second potato with the paring knife and leaving a little pile of skins on the counter beside him when Derek reaches around him to grab one. He looks extremely out of his element as he mimics Stiles' actions, standing awkwardly in the small Stilinski kitchen adding his potato peels to the pile. Stiles deftly halves each potato with his knife and drops them into the simmering pot as he goes along, purposefully oblivious to the awkward tension in the air.

Stiles has to hop off the counter to get the organic recycle bin from under the sink, and Derek automatically backs up and out of his way, his hand clenching around the peeler and his eyes studying Stiles intently. Stiles ignores him, mostly, as he grabs what his dad has long ago dubbed the "slop bucket" from the lower cabinet and scoops the potato peels into it.

He can feel Derek's eyes on the back of his neck as he replaces the bucket and then turns up the heat on the stove to bring the pot to a boil, and it feels... Weird. Uncomfortable. Stiles turns around to chastise the wolf but stops when he sees the look on Derek's face. He looks... fascinated.

"What?" Stiles demands, crossing his arms across his chest.

Derek's look of fascination turns immediately to a smirk of condescension as he tosses the peeler onto the counter and sticks his hands in his pockets. "Didn't know you could cook," he states simply, not quite smiling as Stiles lets out an almost offended huff of breath.

"The things you learn out of necessity," he snarks right back, rolling his eyes and uncrossing his arms. He has to step around the bulky werewolf to get to the refrigerator in the cramped kitchen, but he manages not to touch Derek as he manoeuvres through the tight space to take the chicken out. The throwback mention to Stiles' mother's death leaves Derek with a lump in his throat, but Stiles doesn't even look up to see his reaction as he sets about taking the breasts out of their package.

Stiles, on the other hand, just feels insanely lucky that Derek decided to be around after literally the one time in the past few months that the Sherriff had remembered to go grocery shopping. The fridge is full of cookable foodstuffs and nothing has gone bad yet; it almost looks like a normal household. If Derek had shown up a week earlier he would have found the house empty of food except for a few boxes of Kraft Dinner, a jug of expired milk and some wilted lettuce, the kitchen table littered with take-out menus and wrappings and several notes telling Stiles to order something in since his dad would be working late.

Quickly washing three of the six chicken breasts the Sherriff had bought, Stiles doesn't even look at Derek until he's put them in the oven and set the timer. Work done for the time being, he turns towards Derek only to see an almost sad expression on his face. Not used to the usually sour-looking wolf showing any kind of real emotion, Stiles finds himself frowning too.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his brow furrowing.

"Nothing," Derek replies a second later, the frown slipping off his face. Stiles doesn't push it, but he knows it wasn't nothing.

"Well," Stiles says awkwardly after a moment, scratching absently behind one ear, "We have twenty minutes to kill until I have to mash the potatoes, so..." He shrugs, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. "Does my being able to cook make me an even better choice for a mate, or what?"

The bluntness of the question startles a bark of laughter from Derek, his mask of stoic boredom slipping ever so slightly.

"Yes," he says honestly, eying Stiles appraisingly for his reaction.

"And, um..." Stiles falters, not quite expecting the honesty. "What else... does?"

Derek continues eying him assessingly as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, fidgeting a little. One of his hands creeps up to rub the back of his neck, where the fine hairs are prickling uncomfortably, and he looks like he regrets asking. The tension in the air is thick as Derek seemingly considers the question, broken only when he speaks.

"Quite a few things, actually," he says vaguely, and Stiles stops fidgeting to rolls his eyes.

"Thanks for the ambiguity," Stiles says facetiously, following it with an unbecoming snort of indignation. "That's exactly the answer I wanted."

Derek almost smiles, watching Stiles' display with thinly-veiled amusement. "Sarcasm is not one of those attributes," he states rather bluntly, though when Stiles looks up, startled, he can see the joke in Derek's eyes. Stiles smiles a little, and it crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Loyalty is, though."

"Loyalty?" Stiles repeats, "I guess that makes sense. Pack dynamics, and all that shiz."

"You are extremely loyal. Almost to a fault," Derek continues without any acknowledgement to attest to the fact that Stiles had spoken.

Stiles almost protests, but when he thinks about it, Derek's probably right. So instead he digs his socked toe into a divot in the linoleum floor and casts his gaze downward.

"That's something a wolf looks for in a mate, so stop making that face," Derek grumbles with a fairly impressive roll of his eyes. Stiles looks up, startled.

"What face?" he demands, feeling exceedingly small and foolish standing in his little alley-way kitchen with Mr. Two-Hundred-Pounds-of-Muscle.

"That one—" Derek gestures vaguely towards Stiles' mouth. "—like I kicked your fucking puppy."

It's Stiles' turn to roll his eyes— he had definitely not been making a kicked-puppy face— and cross his arms. "Whatever," he says dismissively, his mind racing to find something intelligent or funny to add to this incredibly awkward conversation.

"Speaking of puppies—" is what he decides on, but Derek cuts him off before he can finish the thought.

"Don't even think about it," Derek grinds out between his teeth, and Stiles is sure he's hit a nerve.

"Oh come on!" Stiles protests, throwing his hands up in the air. "You don't even know what I was going to say!"

Derek moves like he plans to stick his hands in his pockets— though he's still wearing the borrowed sweatpants and police t-shirt, and has none— and ends up aborting the move to put his hands behind him on the counter. "You were going to make some crack about whether or not being my mate would require you to 'whelp my pups,'" he responds dryly, raising and eyebrow at the nervous teenager. "Correct?"

Stiles shrugs. "It's a legitimate question." At Derek's murderous glare, Stiles puts his hands up defensively. "It _is!_" he continues objectively, "For all I know you could work some ancient werewolf voodoo and get me pregnant or something, and I think that's something I should be informed of before we start whatever creepy courting rituals are probably coming next."

Derek snorts; it's the closest thing to a real laugh Stiles has gotten out of him yet, so he counts it as another win in his book.

"Werewolves don't do voodoo," he says almost defensively, "You're thinking of witches, and as far as I know there aren't any in Beacon Hills. Besides—" Stiles almost cuts Derek off to ask if he was serious about there being witches, but decides he'd rather not have his throat ripped out, thank you very much. "My courting will in no way be creepy."

"You don't think any of this is creepy?" Stiles asks, a look of sheer disbelief passing over his features. "It's already creepy! You being a werewolf is creepy! You liking the way I smell is creepy! You sneaking into my room in the middle of the night is _creepy!_" He's flailing his arms around like pinwheels, making all sorts of faces that Derek finds amusing. "It's _going _to be creepy, even if it's totally normal!"

"That doesn't even make sense," Derek comments dryly, leaning back against the Stilinksis' counter.

"Who _cares?_" Stiles retorts, an almost hysterical laugh escaping his lips, "_Nothing _about this situation makes sense! You're supposed to hate me, I'm supposed to hate you, and no one is supposed to get mated in this situation, but apparently that's what's happening." He takes a deep breath and rubs a hand across his eyes, looking tired. "Everything about this is creepy and complicated and confusing."

"It doesn't have to be," Derek points out, carefully taking a step closer to his potential mate, "Well, it doesn't have to be confusing, at least. I'll tell you everything you need to know, and then you make a decision. It's not that complicated either."

Stiles just sighs and throws his hands up in defeat. He mumbles something under his breath that Derek pretends not to hear and turns back to the potatoes, which have long-ago reached a boil and are probably ready to be mashed.

Stiles fishes out a colander from one of the lower cabinets and then turns off the burner, reaching around Derek to grab the household's one and only pair of oven mitts.

"If you could just strain those for me—" he says, turning to offer the mitts to his companion. His voice falters, at a loss for words for once, as he watches Derek deftly grab the sides of the pot and tip it over the colander Stiles had placed in the sink. "Derek!"

Derek looks up from the task sharply, a question behind his eyes. Stiles holds up the oven mitts and raises his eyebrows, jabbing his chin pointedly in the direction of the scalding pot Derek is still effortlessly holding over the sink as water drains from the cooked potatoes.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Stiles asks tentatively as Derek sets the pot down again, turning his palms upwards for inspection. Red, angry lines mark where hot metal touched skin, but only for a moment. The minor burns heal before Stiles' eyes, sealing up as though they'd never been there.

"Not really," Derek says with a half-shrug of his shoulders. Then he smirks and Stiles groans, smacking the werewolf's shoulder with the oven mitt still held loosely in his hand.

"Show-off," he grumbles, tossing the mitts onto the counter and pulling open the cutlery drawer for the masher. "You did that on purpose."

"I did not," Derek disagrees casually, though Stiles can't tell whether he is lying or not by either his voice or his posture.

Stiles has to step around Derek several times to get to various things around the kitchen over the next twenty minutes, wishing for the first time that they had a less compact kitchen. He's never had anyone watch or try to help him cook before, and the extra obstacle in the already cramped kitchen makes the task take quite a bit longer. Or maybe it's just that someone watching him is making him do everything slowly and carefully. Who knows?

Derek watches, fascinated, as Stiles dons the oven mitts to take the chicken out of the oven. Stiles almost rolls his eyes every time he sees Derek— which is every other second, practically— looking large and out-of-place in their tiny kitchen. He makes up three plates and deliberately places the extra one in the microwave to keep it hot for his dad.

He offers one of the plates to Derek, who takes it gingerly as Stiles rummages around in the drawer for the best forks and knives in their mix-match of sets. Some of them are old and even rusty, but neither Stilinski can bear to throw away the thin, flower-embellished utensils Stiles' mother had bought just after her wedding. Stiles knows not to touch those ones, and instead grabs two sturdy, more modern forks and the matching knives for himself and Derek.

He sets Derek's place at the small dining room table and then puts his own plate and cutlery down across from it. Derek puts his own plate down at follows Stiles with his eyes as he returns to the kitchen to grab two glasses and the milk jug.

"Milk or water?" Stiles asks awkwardly after setting the glasses down. He's not used to entertaining company, and supernatural company is no exception. If Scott had been here they'd be sprawled out in front of the television by now scarfing their dinners down as fast as possible so they'd have their hands free to play video games.

"Milk is fine," Derek says gruffly, though he seems to be forcing himself to be polite. Stiles figures that Derek isn't used to being company any more than Stiles is used to having company.

With a sigh, Stiles flops into his seat and then pours himself a glass of milk, pushing it closer to Derek's place at the table afterwards and then digging into his dinner with the usual gusto. Derek down sits across from Stiles primly, and the image is almost laughable as Derek beings to meticulously cut up his chicken and follow Stiles' lead, though considerably neater.

"So—" Stiles says after an awkward silence, swallowing his mouthful of potatoes (which are delicious, if he does say so himself) and twirling his fork absently through the little mountain he's shaped with them. "This mating thing. I've got a weird picture of what it would entail in my head, but I'm sure that it's wrong." The picture in Stiles' head is, in fact, Stiles dressed up as a fifties housewife and running around making pot roasts and ironing and gardening.

"It would entail binding our souls together in miraculous contract in order to strengthen us and bring honour unto our pack," Derek says as though reciting the definition from a book. He scrapes his knife against his plate and the noise makes Stiles wince, but he doesn't interrupt. "There would be courting, which can be almost exactly the same as typical human dating, and then the claiming."

"And how does that work? The claiming?" Stiles asks with an almost morbid fascination, almost forgetting about his dinner as a shiver of anticipation runs down his spine. Ideas flash in his mind in rapid succession— would Derek bite him? Turn him? Recite some sort of binding spell? Would the claiming simply involve them... _consummating_ the relationship, or something else entirely?

Derek stares at him for a long minute and then returns to his dinner with a half-hearted shrug. "Don't know," he says at length.

"What do you mean you don't know?" Stiles demands, his heart suddenly racing again. "Didn't your parents tell you?"

"Not really. They didn't get into the details. I was still essentially a child when—" Derek blinks and then falls silent for a moment. "And they never really got around to giving me that talk. So I'm not sure. I believe I have some idea, but I could be entirely wrong."

"If you don't know how to do it, then how on earth would we?" Stiles asks shakily. "And why would I agree to something without knowing what I was getting into first? I want to know what I'm agreeing to before I get too invested in this."

"I already told you, you don't have to agree to anything yet," Derek replies calmly, still cutting his chicken into tiny cubes of meat. "And I'm almost certain that once the time comes, the instinct will be enough to lead me through the actual process of the claiming."

Stiles sighs, jabs his fork into his chicken and doesn't reply. His mind is racing. He stuffs his face barbarically, and an outsider observing the meal mind entertain the idea that it is Stiles who is the beast and not the older man almost daintily consuming his dinner.

When their plates are clean Stiles drains the rest of his milk and then gathers up the vestiges of the meal to put in the sink. Derek puts the milk jug back into the refrigerator without being asked, and some of the frustration wilts out of Stiles when he turns back to him.

"Shall we continue this discussion upstairs?" Stiles asks, because he feels awfully exposed in the kitchen. Derek nods once and climbs up the stairs, Stiles following close behind.

Once the door to Stiles' room has been closed behind them, Stiles crosses his arms. "I want to stay human," he blurts suddenly. "I'm pretty sure I'd be cool with the rest of it, but I don't want to be like you and Scott."

"You don't have to be turned to be a mate," Derek assures Stiles quickly. "It doesn't work like that. To turn someone, you have to bite them with the intention of turning— an accidental nip or two shouldn't do any damage to your humanity."

Stiles shifts a little uncomfortably under Derek's gaze, trying to think of something else to ask that won't sound desperate or idiotic. "You think I'm annoying," is what he settles on. "That I talk too much. Do you even find me attractive? Because if you don't, this isn't going to work, like, at all."

Derek doesn't answer the question, but instead steps into Stiles' personal space and backs him up against the wall. He has a predatory look in his eyes, just like the night before, and Stiles feels his pulse quicken and his breathing stutter under the gaze.

Stiles opens his mouth to ask what Derek is doing, but before he's able to make a sound, he has been silenced by the firm pressure of Derek's mouth closing over his own. Stiles takes a sharp breath through his nose, his eyes falling shut as he feels Derek's hand move to his jaw and his lips moving gently.

Stiles is surprised by the gentleness as much as he is by the kiss itself. The rough feeling of Derek's stubble against his chin as he presses closer is surprisingly awesome, and the tug of Derek's teeth on his bottom lip is heavenly. Stiles catches himself before he moans, pulls back to avoid making an embarrassing noise.

When he opens his eyes, Derek is still close, almost too close. His eyes are hazel and surprised looking as he pulls back a little, giving Stiles room to breathe. It doesn't help. He's not sure he'll ever be able to breathe right again.

"I don't understand any of this," Stiles says breathlessly, shaking his head just the slightest bit.

"Nor do I," Derek replies honestly, his voice rough. Stiles thinks maybe he can see an emotion there, behind the almost dazed look on his face.

Stiles is about to say something else when he sees Derek's eyes narrow just the slightest bit. Stiles can almost imagine him as a dog, his ears pricking up at a sound in the distance. "Your father is on his way home," he states neutrally, his stoic mask falling into place again.

"Derek—" Stiles says, but Derek is at Stiles' bedroom window in a second, the movement so fast Stiles hardly sees it at all. "Wait."

Derek stops with the window open in front of him, poised for flight but stopping on Stiles' request.

"You don't have to go," Stiles says quickly. "My dad is totally oblivious. You can still stay here, if you want to. You're welcome to stay."

Derek looks conflicted for a moment, but then his intention to leave is clear again. "You have a lot to think about tonight. My being here would interfere with your judgement."

The headlights of his father's cruiser pull into the driveway, lighting up Derek's face at the window. "What if I have more questions? I definitely have more questions," Stiles protests weakly. "How will I find you?"

"I'll be around," Derek assures him quietly. "I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."

The sound of the cruiser's door slamming punctuates the silence of the night, and then the soft beep of the Sherriff setting the car's alarm. Derek waits a moment for the window to be out of the Sherriff's line of sight and then leaps out of it.

Stiles runs to the window the moment Derek is out of it, his hands grabbing the sill as he sticks his head out to watch the werewolf leave.

"Stiles?" Stiles whips his head around when hears his father call his name from downstairs, the familiar sounds of his father dropping his keys on the counter and shucking his jacket loud enough to be heard through the closed door. Stiles closes the window with a sigh and crosses his room in three large steps, opening his bedroom door and stepping out onto the landing. From the top of the stairs he can see his father loosening his tie in the kitchen with one hand and rubbing at his eyes with the other.

"Dinner is in the microwave," Stiles says quickly, and the Sherriff looks up at his son with a smile.

"Thanks, son," he says, warily opening the microwave and then sneezing violently. He grabs his allergy medication from where it is still on the counter from that morning, opening the bottle and swallowing one of the little pink pills dry. "You gotten rid of that dog yet?"

Stiles bursts out laughing. "Yeah, dad, I dealt with it," he says when he is able, and then retreats to his bedroom. When he's alone again, he walks to his window and looks out on the night. For a second, he thinks he sees a shadow moving across the street, but in a blink it's gone, and he can't be sure it was ever Derek in the first place.

_I've been running off in the hours_

_between midnight and dawn,  
><em>

_in the direction of the moon._


End file.
